The Doctor and The Bumblebee
by FaramirsBlessing
Summary: Crossover. Kid!Sherlock, Kid!John, the Doctor, and Rory. Five-year-old Sherlock Holmes has had a bad case of pneumonia that has landed him in the hospital and now he has a very interesting visitor. Pure fluff.


**Yay! Finally posting this crossover up here! Kid!lock and the Doctor because nothing else is so adorable. Enjoy!**

* * *

The five-year-old had been in the hospital for two weeks now. He had caught a bad case of pneumonia and it had been difficult for him to breathe, which was very annoying. How could he possibly be conducting a science experiment when his body was fighting for oxygen? It was very distracting. So, the boy had told his older brother, Mycroft, all about it, as well as his best friend, John. They both seemed overly concerned, which Sherlock thought was ridiculous, and both had told his mother about it. Of course, mummy had overreacted and immediately sent him to bed. He was restricted to bed rest for around three days, which young Sherlock concluded were the most horrendously dull days of his existence. On the fourth, he was permitted to go out and play, but that obviously turned out very badly. No one was watching him, so he completely overworked himself and ended up, according to his fuzzy memory, passed out on the floor of the living room. He vaguely remembered Mycroft waking him up for a brief moment, but then his memories were dark again. After a final memory of some strangers talking over him, Sherlock's memories were blank.

What had apparently happened, he was later told, was that he had hypoxiated because there wasn't enough oxygen in his blood and that he had ceased breathing after Mycroft had woken him up briefly. His older brother had been forced to call the paramedics, who were the strangers Sherlock had heard. Sherlock felt rather bad about that - he often found his brother overbearing and annoying (really annoying), but it must have been frightening to have your little brother suddenly just stop breathing under your hand.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was here. In hospital. Oh, how he hated hospitals. All the doctors were idiots and they prodded and poked him to no end. Initially, when he first woke up, he had something in his throat, which he later learned was a endotracheal tube and that helped him breath using a ventilator. It was particularly annoying since he could not talk when he was attached to the ventilator. And it hurt. And, of course, none of the stupid doctors could tell how much he was hurting.

It was one of the nurses who finally noticed that Sherlock was in pain and asked the doctor to up the pain medication. Sherlock was immensely grateful to this nurse. His name was Rory. Rory Williams. Sherlock would have thought he was boring, but his eyes were different- like they had seen some horrible and unmentionable things. They were puzzling. So Sherlock decided to keep Rory. He put up with the nurse as much as he could. Rory, in accordance with his training, told Sherlock about his wife, Amy, and his friend, who he described as a "world-traveler." He never referred to this person by name, but spoke of him often, which Sherlock found interesting. He was important enough to be talked of often, but not important enough to have a name, apparently.

Yesterday, the antibiotics had worked enough so that Sherlock could breath on his own and the doctors were finally able to get him off the ventilator and onto an oxygen cannula. Unfortunately, the prongs up his nose were horrendously annoying and Sherlock picked at them constantly, much to Rory's annoyance. Rory had warned him that if he played with it any longer, he'd be forced to tape it to his face. So Sherlock had desisted picking at the oxygen line, instead giving his tired body a rest as he went to sleep.

Sherlock woke up from his sleep when he heard voices. And he was positive they weren't from a hallucination this time. These voices were firmer, more solid, _real. _Sherlock wished he knew what they were saying. His tired and heavy brain struggled through the pain-relieving drugs to make sense of the voices

There were two voices, both male. One was firm but gentle, trying to keep quiet. Sherlock instantly recognized it as Rory's. The other was louder, more jovial, almost bouncy in a way. It didn't really belong in a hospital setting. Sherlock was curious. He cracked his eyes open just a smidge so he could see the men without them suspecting he was awake. There were two men in the room, standing some ten feet from his bed, close to the door.

The first voice, like Sherlock suspected, belonged to Rory. He was dressed in the familiar blue scrubs he always wore covered with an old grey flannel. He was holding Sherlock's charts close to his chest and his body language told Sherlock that he was having an argument with the other man.

The other man was a stranger, and a very curious one at that. He had brown hair, was wearing a light brown suit, a white shirt, and a bright red bowtie. Sherlock frowned at this. God, he hated bowties. And ties. Too constricting. He hated that he had to wear a tie with his school uniform because it always made him feel like he was going to suffocate in it. Sherlock switched his gaze to the curious man's shoes. They were covered in soil. _Unfamiliar, _Sherlock's mind supplied. Foreign. A foreigner, then? No, couldn't be- he spoke with a British accent. Well, obviously an Englishman coming back from travel in a foreign country. Judging by the fez the man was spinning around, probably somewhere in the Middle East. Interesting.

The foreign man seemed a lot less concerned than Rory about the argument they were having, adopting a pose that Sherlock recognized. It was the "I'm going to win anyways, so why do I even try?" pose that Sherlock himself had used upon occasion. His lips turned up in a faint grin and he listened to the men's conversation.

"No," Rory said. "Absolutely not."

The stranger made a pouty face at Rory, took the hat off of his head, and swung it quickly around his finger.

"Don't look at me like that," Rory continued. "You are _not _allowed to talk to my patient."

"Why not?" the man asked petulantly.

"You know why. I'd be breaking every rule in the book by letting you talk to him. In fact, I'm breaking every rule in the book by letting you in here."

The stranger waved a hand carelessly and rolled his eyes.

"Like you've never broken any rules, Rory," he said.

Rory gaped wordlessly at him, but regained his composure rather quickly as the stranger took a step towards Sherlock's bed. He stepped quickly in front of him.

"No," Rory said, "I said _no._"

"Oh, come on, Rory, I just want to talk to him."

"Why?"

"He's Sherlock Holmes, who doesn't want to talk to him?"

Sherlock was surprised at this. The stranger knew his name _and _wanted to talk to him. That was unusual. Once people knew his name, they generally avoided him and tried not to talk to him at all costs. Except John, of course. John was an exception to almost every rule. And it seemed this strange man was too. Sherlock listened more carefully to Rory and the stranger's conversation.

"I know you want to talk to him," Rory said, "but he's weak. He's really weak. He was in a bad way this morning. Why don't you come back next week when he's stronger?"

"Because I'll be off who-knows-where next week," the stranger whined.

Sherlock watched through the slits of his eyelids as Rory ran a hand over his face.

"Doctor-" he began, but the other man cut him off.

"It'll only be for a little while, Rory. Come on, please?" The stranger made a face that made Sherlock want to giggle, but he didn't because he knew that would hurt too much and set off the heart monitors, alerting Rory that he was awake and ruining his sleeping ruse. So Sherlock remained silent, although he smiled a little.

"Please, Rory?" the stranger prodded.

There was a long silence as Rory considered the man's question. Sherlock hoped he would say yes. He wanted some new visitors. John was great, but could be boring sometimes and Mycroft was, well, Mycroft. Sherlock waited anxiously for Rory's answer.

"Okay, fine. Fine," Rory said, finally giving in. Sherlock's lips turned up at the corners for a moment. _Yes! _he thought. _A new puzzle to solve! _Rory spoke to the stranger again. "But can you manage to wait five minutes?"

The stranger pulled another face.

"Er, not sure that's going to work, Rory," he said. "Five minutes is a lot of time, you know?"

Sherlock watched as Rory's shoulders slumped in defeat and the stranger perked up, automatically moving towards Sherlock's bed. But Rory held out an arm to stop him.

"Can't you just let him sleep?" Rory pleaded, sounding almost desperate. "At least for five more minutes?"

"Who needs sleep?" the stranger asked, pushing away Rory's arm and glancing over at the bed again. "Sleeping is dull. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock, knowing the game was up, opened his eyes all the way. They opened far too slowly for his liking. _Stupid drugs, _he thought, annoyed. He blinked his eyes a few times in the artificial light of the hospital room, then focused them on the stranger.

He had curious hazel eyes that looked strangely blue from some angles and a fair amount of brown hair that swept messily across his brow. He plopped down in a plastic chair next to the hospital bed and Sherlock took this opportunity to glance at the man's shoes, one of the strangest things about him.

They were covered in red clay, practically caked with it, and the clay was still wet. Sherlock turned to the window. The stars gleamed fitfully in the night sky, but there was no raincloud in sight. Sherlock had been asleep for most of the day, but Molly had told him only an hour ago that it hadn't rained at all that day. A rare treat in this part of England.

And yet. . . the clay on the man's shoes was wet. Actually, most of the man was wet. Sherlock frowned and tried to push himself up. His arms were too weak, though, and he gave up quickly, falling back on the pillows. He expected the man would help him, but his eyes were roving rapidly over all the medical equipment in the room, taking it all in. Instead, Sherlock felt Rory's hand under his back, one hand helping him sit up while the other adjusted the pillows to support his back and head. Sherlock nodded his thanks to Rory once he was settled and the man smiled at him, although he seemed slightly troubled by something on a monitor. He turned to look more closely at it and once his back was to Sherlock, the boy pulled at the oxygen prongs on his face impatiently.

"You really shouldn't do that, you know," the stranger said, his hazel eyes dancing with amusement. "It helps you breathe."

"Breathing is boring," Sherlock huffed.

The man snickered.

"But the oxygen is good for your brain," he countered. "And I'm sure you don't think brainwork is boring."

Sherlock glared at him. The strange man wanted to burst out laughing at the amount of vehemence the five-year-old boy managed to put into a look. But he merely grinned, knowing Rory would be annoyed if he was too loud.

"Who are you?" the child asked.

The strange man leaned back in his chair, the plastic whining as it bent.

"Who do you think I am?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Rory called you a doctor, but you don't look like one. If you are one, you must be a specialist of some kind, not a hospitalist. But there's nothing seriously wrong with me, so it doesn't make sense that they would call in a subspecialist. The only thing I'll have difficulty with later is breathing, but Rory's a respiratory therapist and that's his job. Maybe you're a Ph.D. I'm not sure. It's obvious that you and Rory know each other and that you parted on friendly terms. He keeps a picture of you, Amy, and himself on his clipboard, you know. Rory's just slightly startled that you decided to show up here, of all places. It's strange you got into the PCCU since you are not a family member or close friend. Then there's your shoes- the clay is from foreign soil, since there is none in England like it. It is wet, as are your shoulders and some of your hair. Therefore, you've recently been somewhere foreign that had heavy rains. I would guess the Middle East, judging by the fez, but they have a dry climate and the fez is obviously some type of bizarre fashion statement. There are no flights that can get you from the Middle East to England quickly enough that you remain wet. So where have you been?"

All of this came out of Sherlock's mouth in a rapid fire and almost bored way, but with the familiar lisp of a young child. Sherlock's eyes were shining with curiosity and interest.

The stranger leaned back in his chair, grinning widely. Amy had told him the man was brilliant, but he wasn't expecting the child to be so quick. His grin became wider and he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees.

"Neat," he said.

Sherlock frowned.

"Where have you been?" he asked again. "And who are you?"

The stranger smiled.

"Where I've been isn't really your business, Mr. Holmes, and this should explain who I am."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a black notebook. He flipped open a page and held it out so Sherlock could see. Sherlock blinked at it.

"I'm young, not stupid," he said viciously. "That paper has nothing on it."

The man glanced at it, then back at Sherlock, his eyes full of curiosity.

"Huh, I suppose you're right," he said, placing the notebook back in his coat. "It does have nothing on it."

"Who are you?" Sherlock repeated. He was not going to take no for an answer.

The stranger glanced at Rory, who shook his head. But the stranger shrugged and looked Sherlock squarely in the face.

"I'm the Doctor," he said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"Doctor what?" he asked.

"If you like," the man said. "Can I ask you something?"

"No," Sherlock said flatly. "Are you an actual doctor? A Ph.D? What are you?"

The stranger opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock paled and shied away from him.

"Are you a psychologist?" he asked, a hint of fear sliding into his voice. "I already told them I wasn't crazy and Mycroft promised he'd have no more of them in here."

The stranger's heart was touched with a hint of pity. He reached out to touch Sherlock, but the boy slapped his hand hard and the man pulled away, shaking his hand to get rid of the sting.

There was a knock on the door and a red-haired girl peeked her head in, smiling widely. _God, why are these people so happy? _Sherlock thought to himself. _This is a hospital, not a circus. _

"Ah, Amy, what is it?" the stranger asked.

"Someone wants in," she said.

"Who?"

"Little boy, about yea-high, brown hair-"

"Oh, that's just John," Rory said. "You can let him in."

Amy nodded and pushed open the door, a small boy smiling at her as she let him in. The Doctor looked at him curiously. He was short, but stood tall and firm, had big brown eyes, and short sandy brown hair. He had a small gift bag swinging from his hand. The boy ran to Sherlock eagerly, utterly ignoring the other people in the room for the moment. He climbed onto the foot of the bed, then scooted close to Sherlock.

"Hi, Sherlock!" he said happily.

Sherlock smiled.

"Hi, John," he said.

"I got you a present," he said, holding out the bag.

Sherlock took it slowly.

"You didn't have to get me a present," he said. "Completely unnecessary."

John just grinned.

"Open it!" he said eagerly, squirming in excitement.

Sherlock took the gift bag and slowly dragged a few layers of dark blue tissue paper out of it. He reached inside and pulled out a stuffed bee about the size of his arm, grinning.

"It's a bee!" John said happily.

"Obviously," Sherlock said. But he was still smiling. He held the toy at arm's length and grinned childishly at John.

"What are you gonna name it?" John asked.

"Bombee," Sherlock said.

John raised an eyebrow and Rory looked slightly concerned.

"Bombee?" Rory asked. "Is that short for bomb or something?"

Sherlock's smile faded and his eyes switched from Rory to the strange man who was still sitting in the chair. He scooted closer to John.

"John," he whispered. "They brought in another person to see if I was crazy."

John's smile faded and he took Sherlock's hand, glaring at the stranger.

"He's not crazy," John said firmly. "And he's not dangerous. Not really."

The Doctor nodded.

"Of course not," he said gently. "I don't think he is."

"Then why are you here?"

"I just wanted to talk to Sherlock," he said.

"No one wants to talk to me," Sherlock said, drawing the stuffed bumblebee close to his chest.

"But I do."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Why? What makes you so different from everybody else?"

There was a pause.

"Everything," the stranger finally answered.

Sherlock blinked at this.

"Okay," the black-haired boy said, starting to disarm himself. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

"I'm not sure exactly," the stranger continued, "I think I just wanted to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes in the flesh. See what he was like."

"But I'm not famous," Sherlock said.

"Not yet," the man replied cryptically. He switched his gaze to John. "It seems I also have the pleasure of meeting John Watson."

John stared at him.

"Sorry. . . who are you?"

The stranger pulled the black book out of his pocket again.

"What does this say?" he asked.

John blinked quizzically at it.

"Nothing," he said. "It doesn't say anything."

The man grinned.

"How delightful!" he said. "You really can't see anything on this? Either of you?"

Both little boys shook their heads.

"Neat!"

"You're not a psychologist, then?" Sherlock asked.

The man started to answer, but John interrupted him. "Of course not, Sherlock," the boy said. "He's obviously as crazy as you."

Both the stranger and Sherlock grinned at this and Sherlock looked carefully again at the man.

"You're interesting," he said. "I like interesting. What do we call you?"

"The Doctor."

"How do you know Rory?" Sherlock asked.

"He's my friend."

Sherlock nodded.

"Why do you wear bowties and fezzes?"

"They're cool," the man answered.

"No, they're awful. Suffocating and hideous."

John expected that the man would frown disapprovingly or yell, but instead he laughed.

"Oh, I like you," he said. "So honest! It's refreshing."

Sherlock smiled again and the strange man glanced at his watch.

"Well, I must be off," he said. He stood up and looked down at Sherlock. "It was very nice to meet you. Amy was right – she said I would like you."

He shook Sherlock's small white hand, grinning down at him. Then he turned to John and shook his hand as well.

"Take good care of him, John," he said.

John turned to look at Sherlock, who had the toy bee clutched close to him still.

"I will, Doctor," he said, smiling.

As the Doctor turned to leave, Rory following him, he looked back at the curly black-haired boy lying in the hospital bed. He watched as the boy twisted a piece of dark blue tissue paper into the shape of a scarf and tied it around the stuffed bee's neck. For a moment he saw the older man Sherlock would become, curls still unruly, a friend that still meant everything to him, and an undying passion for bees.

"I think that you chose a wonderful name for your bumblebee, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock looked at him and, seeing understanding in his eyes, grinned.

"You know what it means, Doctor," he said. "Tell me."

"Bombee is short for bombus, the scientific name of the bumblebee."

Sherlock grinned.

"Obviously," he said.

* * *

**PCCU- Pediatric Critical Care Unit**

**And Bombus is the actual scientific name for bumblebees- it's the genus. There's more detailed classifications as you go along, like Bombus fervidus is the Golden Northern Bumblebee. Just in case you were wondering. :)**

**Hope you enjoyed this happy fluff! Only 15 more days for Sherlock season 3 in America! So excited! I've had to avoid everything on the internet because of spoilers, so if you post a review, no spoilers please! Thank you!**


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